


Sympathy of ravens and wolves

by jeza_red



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, a take on eileen's night, canon typical amount of blood, don;t copy to another website, implied alfred/hunter, implied hunter/gilbert, the hunt as seen from the kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: She stroked the brooch with her thumb and imagined that there was still an ember of warmth within it. She didn’t protest when a trembling hand in stained glove closed over both objects and hid them from view. She would leave them with him, let him keep these mementos of failure close to his chest. Every Hunter had to start with the simplest of badges.She was too old to carry all of hers around, her back was not what it has been a decade ago.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 70





	Sympathy of ravens and wolves

It was a sad sight to behold, to see such a man - a man in his prime, bright-eyed and fair-haired, and altogether well put together - so twisted and beastly, and struggling to remain unaware of it. Truly a chilling sight. He was a murderer, that one, she knew. It was written in his moves, on his face - handsome and straight, lips curved in an amicable smile under the eyes that were flat and cold, and a bit too bright. In the way he carried himself, the economy of movement and the constant awareness of his surroundings. It was even more obvious when one looked at his garb, the tippet hanging from his back like a standard of the Hunters that even the Church itself regretted.

It piqued her curiosity, that cloth. She’d thought them all gone. Back in the past when she hunted for the Moon, they were already gone, swallowed by the endless winter of Cainhurst, trapped on the other side of a fallen bridge. It was the Church itself that cut them off, the famed Ludwig himself who ordered the bridge destroyed. All because the holy men realized too late that the dogs they’ve raised to hunt for them were too dangerous to keep around.

So what was this stray doing here? In the Cathedral Ward of all places? Praying at the forgotten altar as if nothing was amiss?

She observed him for a time, waging her bets. Was he ready to be relieved of his dreadful existence yet or did he have a few more nights in him before madness finished taking its hold? Was it even worth for her to meddle? He was a Church hunter, not affiliated with the Workshop, should she bother with him at all? Cathedral Ward was nearly empty as it was; even insane, he would not do much harm to anyone innocent.

After all, she had a bigger game to hunt down.

Gascoigne was out there, alone. He has been falling apart for a while now and she had a feeling that this Hunt may be his last. She hoped to get to him before the madness did.

So she left the Executioner to his own devices. If he had any brains left in that pretty head of his, she won’t see him again.

* * *

She had a good view of the ledge where their house stood - once the night has fallen, Yharnam rearranged itself in a way that made things easier and harder at the same time. Getting anywhere was near impossible for those expecting to find order in the placement of the streets and squares. Those in the know were rare, those aware how the shortcuts cut through the hunting grounds of Yharnam and its satellites. And even though getting to the house quickly would prove challenging, at least her perch allowed her to see whether or not Gascoigne returned home.

She was so focused on the view in the distance that the sound of old wood crashing into splinters behind her back almost threw her out of her skin.

A Hunter had quite literally stumbled into her hideout, giving her a pause, stilling her hand on the handle of a knife. He smelled of something she had almost forgotten - the acrid, sweetly-bitter scent of crushed almonds, overblooming linden trees and burnt sugar. At once pleasant and stomach-turning in its intensity.

No doubt about it, the lad was hunting for the Moon.

Poor young fool, somehow more pitiful than the rest of them; what, with his thin stature, spindly like a spider. He would be pretty, but for the fresh scars and the eye that was probably glass before he had awakened in the Dream. No, the Moon never suffered incomplete soldiers to carry its intentions. They were made as perfect as possible all the way until madness claimed them or they lost their usefulness in any other unsavory way.

Unfortunate lad, not even a name to him, his head empty, but for the need to chase the elusive scent of the Moon that was always a step too far, always just out of reach. She knew that urge well, from her youth, from the time she had dreamed that reaching the target will set her free, let her return home - wherever that was. From before she gave up that senseless chase and picked up her own mantle, and allowed Yharnam to become her home.

He will tire out too, soon enough. A few more nights, a few more Hunts drenched in blood, guts, and misery, and his dream will also end. But until then she could be kind to him, give him advice and a moment of peace to still his trembling hands. Gods, this was not a soldier, that's for sure, he may not survive this first night.

But as long as his death was honest and his mind clear when the Moon finally let him go, that was not her business to attend.

* * *

She could not find Frederik as much as she circled between the Ward and the town proper, eyes open wide and ears on attention. All that stood in her way were the scattered commandos made up of crazed townsmen, closed doors and boarded up windows with the lights extinguished, and a feeling of dread slowly climbing up her spine until it could sit on her shoulder and whisper unease into her ear.

There was something not right with this night, with this Hunt. The setting sun hung over the line of the horizon like nothing more than a flat ornament, not-eager or unable to finally slip down below it. Time was never certain during the Hunt, but - for the things in the city to be already so bad before the sun had even set? The pyres were already in full blaze and smoke plumed into the sky, clinging to the steep roofs, oily soot drifted down the tight alleyways like black mist.

And there were so very few Hunters about.

She’s met Henryk, but briefly. The old man shared her concern for their towering companion, as he himself wasn’t sure where the reverend had wandered off to. It was a bad sign, the two old men were near inseparable, for one to be seen alone… What about Henryk and his own peace of mind? He hasn’t covered his eyes yet, but there was no mistaking the effects of the blood on him - his bloodshot whites were an unsettling sight.

“I will not go into the night blind and helpless,” he told her, noticing her thoughtful stare; his accented voice calm, but hard as a stone. “I will look them in the eye as they come to take me away. I’ve been a Hunter for longer than you’ve been alive, girl, I will die on my own terms.”

He was always like that, ever since she remembered, a hard man from a hard land that settled in Yharnam for reasons no one was privy to. He’d lived a long life, a life of horror and horrific beauty, he never had to answer to anyone. If… when he goes, she supposed, it will be a magnificent sight. But she didn’t have to think about it yet - focus on one target at a time, that’s what carried her through more Hunts than she could count, that’s what will get her through this one too.

The young fool crossed her path every so often, circling like a lost hound following a faint scent of the game it didn’t quite recognise. He was pushing towards the bridge, but more cautiously than she gave him credit for. Was he attempting to reach the Ward, too?

The Great Bridge was blocked and impassable.

She thought to tell him that, to warn the young Hunter off progressing further - Cathedral Ward was where the biggest beasts wandered openly, the clerics and the undead guardians, one had to be smart about crossing it. Better the lad spent his first Hunt in the city, where the worst that could happen to him were the distorted citizens, malformed dogs and an occasional bullet to the chest. Better he found his feet in the shallow waters first before moving up to more risky endeavours.

But she didn’t tell him that - the fool will learn on his own.

The Crow had things to do, there was little she could help him with. She had to find Gascoigne and give him peace.

* * *

The young fool had found him first - and still before that, the madness did.

Gascoigne was dead now. Killed by the mousy Hunter as a rite of passage and a sacrifice for the right of entrance into the bigger hunting ground.

To think that she was so close to him! She has passed above the Odeon’s graveyard time and time again, avoiding the giants and were-creatures, and not deeming it important to look down, to make sure… He had to be long gone, for a first-timer to dispatch him. If she was anyone else, she would not believe the boy, but the shawl he has presented her with was proof enough. Stained and torn, and repurposed into an impromptu bandage for the bleeding hand, it was still recognisable. Silver thread glittered weakly in the sparse light of the dying sun and Eileen could almost see it in her mind’s eye, handled by a soft woman’s hand, restitched time and time again...

And Viola.

Oh gods.

Oh, good gods. She was dead, too.

“The little girl asked me…” the Hunter was choking out through the grief squeezing his throat. There was an object in his healthy hand, a tiny box made out of wood, metal cogs and an enduring love a woman had for her husband. A music box, bloodstained and silent; and next to it was a drop of a dark red jewel framed in silver she knew so well. “She asked me to…”

“Lottie.” Eileen said before she thought better of it.

She stroked the brooch with her thumb and imagined that there was still an ember of warmth within it. She didn’t protest when a trembling hand in stained glove closed over both objects and hid them from view. She would leave them with him, let him keep these mementos of failure close to his chest. Every Hunter had to start with the simplest of badges.

She was too old to carry all of hers around, her back was not what it has been a decade ago. “And her sister? What of Laura?”

“I haven’t- haven’t spoken to anyone else in that house.”

Oh gods.

“No matter, I will go and check myself.” She pushed her hat on tighter and pulled on her cloak; the wings closed around her with a strange vulnerability she was not supposed to feel anymore.

She had to check on the house, immediately. And Henryk - she had to tell him that his daughter and son in law, his hunting companion… she had to tell him.

“Don’t get slaughtered while I’m away. If you must rest, the Chapel on top of the stairs will hide you for a time.” She paused, taking a good, long look at the young Hunter that trembled before her, and yet bravely tried to pull himself together. Poor child. “The passage is flooded; water’s not the cleanest, but better than nothing. Clean yourself off of filth, the smell attracts attention you won’t welcome.”

Poor young bastard. She hoped she wouldn't have to see him again that night.

* * *

As fate had it, she saw the young one again as soon as she entered the Odeon’s Chapel, hours later.

He was here, sitting on the floor like a child listening to a story, in front of him a hideous creature swathed in red cloth. She thought to kill the miscreant right away, but it soon became clear that the hunched being was simple in mind and quite harmless, friendly even.

The place stunk of burned herbs, the sweet scent of lavender and sage, sure to ward off any beast that would dare to wander up close.

A safe haven and a friendly face? The young fool was lucky - good, it may just save his soul.

She didn't enter the Chapel fully, content to stand outside, under the Moon, and spy on the quiet conversation happening in the fumes of the incense. She needed a moment to think, to gather herself together.

She’d talked to the girls, she did. They were both home, safe behind boarded up window, waiting for their parents to come. She wanted to tell them what happened, but in the end she had neither the heart, nor the stomach for it. What good would it do now, to have the children even more terrified and despaired? What good could she do for them now, when the Hunt was still going? No, she had to wait for the night to end, one thing at a time.

“Did you talk to her?”

She didn't startle when a quiet inquiry turned her away from her thoughts. The fool was getting better at not making noise.

“Is the little one safe?”

Ah, the bleeding heart of a novice, what trials await you, she thought. Out loud she said. “Yes, she is. They both are. Worried about you, too.”

He seemed taken aback by the sentiment, but pulled himself together in a snap. Good, one too many distractions and he’ll be dead meat strewn across the plaza.

“If you see her, can you tell her…”

“No,” Eileen cut off mercilessly. “I won't be near that house tonight.”

One too many distractions meant death during the Hunt.

* * *

Old Yharnam was a place of despair for as long as she could remember. Heavy smoke hung in the air, oily and thick, scratching and choking as it went down the throat. Thankful for her mask, Eileen traversed the sooth-brushed streets and blackened roofs; trying to keep herself above the ground as much as possible, to avoid wandering mobs of former citizens, changed and twisted into monsters. They’ve swarmed the streets and plazas covered in rags and charred fur, puss dripping form the raw wounds littering their skeletal bodies, plague victims and its bearers simultaneously. Good thing that a sturdy torch was enough to keep them away most of the time. Pitiful they might be, but their claws were long and covered in poisonous filth, carrying a different kind of death that was even less kind than being torn apart.

The young fool had entered the old city and she was curious as to what he’d intended to accomplish by it. She couldn’t pretend that she knew what ran through his mind any more than she could pretend that her insides didn’t tighten at the suspicion that there was some order to his flailing, some purpose that neither of them understood yet.

It was a daring escapade, that’s for sure, a damned undertaking from the beginning, but she wasn’t the one to tell him this. If the fool could not read clear warnings, she was hardly to blame for his fate if he happened upon another that made Old Yharnam his residence.

She was surrounded by fools, it would seem. Ever since Gratia had been torn out of her hands and ensnared by the Nightmare, there was little common sense to go around. Men were senseless at the best of times, after all.

She was there to look for Nicolai – last time she’d seen him, he was barely able to keep up his side of the conversation, but not bad enough for her to intervene yet, there was still one good Hunt in him. She didn’t think that the matters turned better with time and didn’t hope that Djura would take them into his own hands. No, a man who pitied those already lost couldn’t be trusted to keep others from being taken.

That’s why when she happened upon his body, it was a surprise. It was a fresh kill, blood pooling around in a dramatic splatter, only half-congealed and still bright enough to be easily visible. He was slumped against a wall, as if asleep on duty, head tilted to the side, one eye visible under the shade of a hood. Eileen pushed the eyelid up with the tip of a knife and swore under her breath. The eye was full of blood, the iris cracked like a shell, ruptured form the inside in a tell-tale sign of time that had ran out.

She pulled the scarf covering his lips down to see a stubbly chin and a mouth that was too wide for the face, eating into the cheeks, baring extra sets of teeth that tried to find space for themselves.

So, he’s been long gone by the time someone thought to dispatch him. Good.

Was it Djura? Would the old wolf think to perform such kindness to his old companion?

No, she decided. No, it wasn’t. Djura’s weapon of choice dealt special kind of damage; she couldn’t smell the gunpowder either. There were no wounds she could see, but Nicolai died retching blood and the shape of his chest was all wrong – as if an untold force pinned him against the wall like a flailing bug, crushing his insides in one fell swoop.

There was one weapon able to perform such a feat that she’s seen around recently.

With a new feeling of dread, she looked around the smoking plaza and up the church tower. Would the Executioner come here? Why?

She took to her duties in a hurry, now wary of more than a few malformed beasts enticed closer by the scent of blood. She took Nicolai’s head clean off and dragged the body away from the wall, into a sunny spot where it will be easily visible from the sky. It was still soft enough that arranging it was easy – hands stretched up, crossed at the wrists, head tucked safely between bent elbows. A copper coin she pushed under the stiff tongue, along with a pinch of sweet smelling herbs. Another handful she spread over the body. The birds will come soon, she knew, they always did.

Usually, she took them up on the roofs, her marks. Closer to the sky, further away from the monsters prowling the streets below. It made little difference for the dead, but for the bit of ceremony she’d felt they all deserved at the end of their road. Those that hunted for the Moon had the luck of being offered grace – they could leave once their tenure has ended, once they’ve lost enough of their minds that even She could not make more use of them. They’ve been offered choice that others never got. Eileen was the only thing that stood between the Hunters of Yharnam and a prowling Nightmare that sucked them in, never to be released.

Living like beasts and dying like dogs, that’s all they’ve got to look up to.

She hurried through the last rites and left, pulled away by a new trail. The sickly-sweet scent wrapped around her head, leading away from the old church, lower, into the decrepit remains of a once prosperous town that struggled and died in the shadow of the great spires and shining windows of the Cathedral Ward. Buried under the Great Bridge, left to rot like a forgotten cadaver.

The scent ran down the stairs and through burned out doorways, strong and unhindered by the haze of smoke that dulled the senses.

The young Hunter was there, was close. And, judging by the bodies strewn across the path in various states of dismemberment the further Eileen followed, he didn’t much care to be inconspicuous.

Was it him that relieved Nicolai? It was a strange precedent, then. Was the young buck trying to put her out of her job?

The amusement that thought brought her evaporated, however, when her eyes rose from a particularly gruesome bonfire to rest on the crumbling structure lording over an overgrown yard and two figures making their way towards it.

Two?

The young fool she recognised right away.

The other one – unfortunately, too. That pale hound swathed in his winter cloaks, stained red in places, he carried the Kirk on his shoulder as if it weighted no more than the mask of a pleasant smile on his face.

The ruin of the cursed church in the Old Yharnam rose above them and they’ve stepped up the broken stairs without a moment’s hesitation.

Ah, it has been a while since the young Hunters she knew dared one another to survive that particular task. Decades. Even Djura stayed away from it - even his foolhardy courage only stretched so far.

She left before the roar of a skinned beast rose above the ash and smoke. Curiosity was something she’d killed in her heart a long time ago - it got supplanted by caution born out of bitter experience. If the fool didn't get too cocky, he will return, if not… well. She had places to be.

* * *

Next time Eileen visited the Chapel for a moment of unhindered breath, there was another woman waiting there. A beauty, young and fair; her dress was rich, but she sat on the floor, curled into a corner where the incense was the least offensive. To Eileen’s surprise, she was busy knitting.

“Oh, good night,” she greeted the old hunter once they were close enough.

“Good night,” Eileen answered in kind.

“Are you with him?” The girl didn't raise her eyes from her knitting again, seemingly unconcerned, but the tense line of her shoulders told a different story. The neckline of the dress was deep enough to barely skip the line of decency and the skin it revealed was pale and dry, marked here and there with pinprick bruises. “Did the the Hunter with one eye out of set promise you safety, too?”

“Nowhere is safe during a Hunt,” Eileen grunted, seating herself down opposite the whore, as she recognised now. What a collection the fool was gathering here. “Some places are just harder to find than others.”

They spoke no more, there was no need. Eileen allowed her thoughts to drift while her hands busied themselves with sharpening the blades, easy, slow strokes of the whetstone on metal a steady routine that calmed her mind. It was necessary, because the Moon was still hanging high and the night was adamantly refusing to end. It signaled bad tidings, but for the life of her Eileen could not come up with a reason for why now, of all times. Was the Church behind it? Was the Choir doing something to drag their gods closer to Yharnam’s dirt again?

Time and again her eyes fell on the ghost light hovering steadily over the centre of the chapel’’s floor, visible to her only because a long time ago she’d shared affiliation with those that used it. A lantern, a doorway to the Dream was there, of all places.

The heap of rags she recognised as the fist dweller of the chapel snored lightly in another corner.

It was surprisingly peaceful in there, something she didn't think she’d experience during the Hunt. Thankfully, the peace didn’t last long enough to get used to.

He stumbled into the chapel like an animal run down to its last breath. So soaked in blood that his every step was leaving a puddle - a stream of crimson flowed behind him, like a weil of a robe. The weapon in his limp hand dragged, the teeth of the cleaver squealing against the stones like strangled kittens. He collapsed by the lantern, boneless almost, and only lifted his head when Eileen stepped closer to stop the whore from reaching him first.

“You reek of poison,” she said, voice dry.

The whore gasped and backed off, her pale hands rose to grip her shoulders nervously. That was when the young Hunter finally seemed to notice her presence.

His unmasked face looked terrible even to Eileen’s eyes - skin ashen, purple from bruises and poison wherever not covered in blood; his left cheek was still open, the muscle glistening wetly when he smiled like a daft child. His hat was missing. A right mess, that’s what he was.

“Arianna,” he breathed. His teeth were red. “You came through safely… thank God...”

The girl shrugged, as if she didn't give a pat. “I’ve had little choice, neighbours started to claw at the walls…”

Very nice, all that, but time was of the essence. “Get out of these clothes and burn them, lad, they're lost. Then go wash yourself, before you spread the plague around.”

He swallowed, with obvious difficulty, and smiled again, the little idiot. Standing up took almost more power than he had at the moment, but he did it with no help. Good, if he needed help with that, he was already lost. “I will… I have a stash of clothing at the clinic in town… I can get it. Stay here…”

“Have you had any blood yet?” Eileen barked harshly. “You won't get two steps into the town in this state.”

Another smile, just for her. “Don’t worry… I’ve sorted out a couple… shortcuts for myself. I’ll be fine…”

He left without another word. The whore - Arianna, - looked after him until the sounds of the shuffling steps silenced. Then her eyes fell on the puddle of blood left where the fool knelt and her eyebrows narrowed in exasperation as she glanced about, doubtlessly in search of any rags that could be used to mop up the mess. A woman’s work was never done.

* * *

Eileen followed him to the town centre. Careful not to be seen, jumping from rooftop to rooftop on cat-silent feet.

She shouldn’t, really, but the night was long and he was entertaining enough to make sure he reaches the clinic in one piece. That was a bit more coddling that she was used to, but there were so very few Hunters left in the city proper and it would be stupid to lose a fledgling so soon. The Moon would fix him up, of course, the Moon could fix up everything - and that was a curse within itself if she’d ever seen one. Every time a Hunter came back from the dead, they came back _less_. Hollowed by the power keeping them alive, until they were little more than a shell - a frantic doll that stalked the streets and killed everything that came against it. The more they’ve learned of their true purpose, the more they’ve lost. It was an inescapable conclusion, one that she couldn't even save them from, - back in the day, she’d tried. Oh, how she’d tried. But they’d kept returning, until the Moon was done with them.

So she followed the lad all the way to Central Yharnam, through the labiryntu of forgotten aqueducts, up and down the ladders, and alright, he looked to have it all sorted out in his head. Avoiding patrols stalking the streets and the undead hiding in the sewage, he took the quickest route towards the safe house. Not bad for a fledgling. The clinic was closed during the Hunt, true, the good doctor too wise to let the plague inside, but it was still in a good defensive position, with a sturdy gate and even sturdier door to hide behind. Not to mention medical supplies available in the numerous cupboards. He could do much worse.

That's why she was surprised to find that the fool didn't spend more than a handful of minutes in the clinic - he exited it in the same stained clothes, the only change a bundle of cloth under his arm, and a step that was a bit more steady than before as he turned back towards the town and started to climb. She flailed a bit, though she'd never admit it, finding a new hiding place in the face of his unexpected return.

She hid and watched him climb the escape ladder and crumble to the ground by the side of a building on the top of it, right under a barred window with - oh, truly? - an incense burner next to it. There was a light in that window and was it her imagination or did the drapes move? Curious.

She watched, in shameless curiosity as he Hunter dressed and then stood at the window, climbing up on his toes to reach the crack of the sill. A thin line of light fell like a scar across his face, one eye shining unnaturally with it. She watched from a distance, curious. Watched him talk with whoever was on the other side of the glass, a near-whispered conversation punctuated often with coughing fits. Such a silly notion, to search for friends amongst the cursed and plague-ridden, such folly. And yet she didn't have it in her to step in and tell him of it.

If a few kind words from a darling hidden behind the drapes were to help the man keep his sanity, then she would let him have them. Better this friendship separated by iron bars than the other one, with the beast in a winter cloak.

She thought to go, leave him to his feeble hopes, but something stopped her as she was turning away. It was… someone else was there, also watching, all her senses told her to be wary.

She caught up to him a moment later, and easily too, for he wasn’t hiding. Unashamed of eavesdropping and unbothered with her presence, the last Executioner in the city looked at her from his perch and had the audacity to smile as she frowned in his direction.

“Ah, the Crow,” his voice was pleasant enough, light and smooth like fresh cream. “I’ve heard talks of you.” His eyes went back to the silhouette in black on the faraway ledge. “Are you planning to take an apprentice, then?”

He wasn't afraid that she came for him, didn't even consider it. A wolf of the Church, she wouldn't want to scrap with him unnecessarily and he knew it.

“Are you?” She asked back.

“Me? Oh, no, not at all,” he chuckled. “Not at all, I am not a Master of the Order, I have little time to train new acolytes… And the Church has changed, hasn’t it?” He closed his eyes briefly, before looking up to the overcast sky. “They have rejected us, just as they’ve rejected you, the Workshop Hunters. Their new crop is weak and feeble, with their knives and poisons, they remind more of that cursed spawn of Cainhurst than anything else now.”

His eyes grew brighter at that, handsome face twisted in a dark grimace and Eileen almost took a step back. She was known to be fearless, but not for being stupid.

“No,” after a long moment he shook the darkness off as if it was nothing, but just a layer of snow on his cloak. “No apprentices for us now, no new blood. There are few left of your kind and even fewer of mine.”

“And yet you stalk him.”

“And yet. A friend is a rare thing in these parts, isn’t it? A man with soft voice and integrity. I’d rather see him alive to greet the dawn. What of you?”

A friend? How implausible. Executioners were insane, mad on blood and their own twisted creed, inhuman in a sense so warped it was hard to stomach even for other Hunters.

And this one here, the last bad seed of the lot, was looking for a friend? Preposterous!

But, even if, what of her, then?

What of her, indeed.


End file.
